The hypnotic music of Argentine Tango and the fusion of mind and body induced by the dance will not let go. In the beginning, as obsession sparred with reason, I fended off surrender by posting on a Facebook page vignettes of life at the shifting interface between Tango fantasy and reality. The stories were set in cities where I had found Tango: Beirut, Barcelona, Lviv, Orlando, San Diego. Men and women I met while dancing inspired my characters. Instead of rummaging through expository psychology, I sketched them in broad strokes, seeking to capture their inner life through dialog, or simply by recording chance details and gestures. The vignettes invariably found the narrator in thrall to a beautiful woman, both of them mesmerized by Tango’s melancholy bandoneons. If you want a sense of what Tango does to you, how it infiltrates and nurtures your neglected waking dreams, just step through the lacquered black door of The Hotel Fakir, ask Ignatio for a glass of Malbec, and let the tropical flowers and Tango take you away. You too will dream all day about Tango.